


The Devil Whispered To Me

by juicehoee



Series: Is There Comfort at the Bottom of a Swimming Pool? [2]
Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Angst, Caretaking, Crossdressing Kink, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Fluff, Love, M/M, Mental Instability, Non-Sexual Submission, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Smut, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 13:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16041821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juicehoee/pseuds/juicehoee
Summary: SEQUEL to Enough of the Two Hand Touch, You Want it Rough- Juice, Tig, and Chibs look for a new life in Minnesota, away from the club and away from Clay. Of course, there are always some complications.





	The Devil Whispered To Me

**Author's Note:**

> Finally! The sequel! I'm so excited to bring my three favorite boys back together.

The motel room is cold and empty.

It reminded Juice of his college dorm rooms that he refused to decorate. White walls devoid of posters, tapestries, anything to make the square box feel like a home. He missed his Notorious B.I.G. poster in the living room or the stack of video games he had next to the tv. Even the grey comforter drained the life out of him whenever he looked at it. Like those college dorms, this wasn’t home. It didn’t feel like home.

Juice missed Chibs the most. He could never admit it out loud, but it was the truth. He missed the caring arms wrapped around him where he was free to whisper his most secret thoughts into the Scotsman’s chest.

He couldn’t miss Tig because he couldn’t bear to think of Tig, all alone in that hospital room wincing in pain from the bullet wound in his shoulder. It had been two weeks and he’d heard nothing from either of them.

 _They’re dead,_ whispered a nasty voice in the forefront of his brain. _Clay killed them. Chopped them up into little pieces and buried them in Gemma’s garden._

 _No,_ another, nastier voice would say to him. _They’ve eloped. Without you._

Juice cried alone in bed underneath the grey comforter praying that he wasn’t as alone in the world as he thought he was. The empty walls were screaming at him so loud he tore at his hair, growing longer and longer with each passing day. He couldn’t see his tattoos anymore, just raven black hair. He looked like he was back in college, angry and lost.

A young, Puerto Rican idiot with a chip on his shoulder and a talent for tech that he didn’t know what to do with. Angry, lost, alone.

Not much had changed since then. Except he learned how to ride a motorcycle. A lot of good that was doing him while he sat around this motel room, waiting for the loves of his life to come and rescue him from the impending sense of doom he felt creeping up on him.

Two weeks. Two weeks eating only vending machine food. He could even go for a little bit of Chibs’ homemade haggis (where Chibs got the sheep’s lung, he didn’t want to know).

When the fuck did he become such a pathetic damsel in distress?

 

* * *

 

By the time the third week crept up on him, Juice’s cheeks started to hollow. His tattoo was completely covered by hair and he’d developed a little scruff on his cheeks. They took out the vending machine so he’d been forced to go to CVS to stock up on his sustenance.

Not that you could really count Sour Patch Kids, Skittles, and Scooby Snacks as sustenance.

His hands are shaking and his phone never leaves his side. It hasn’t lit up yet. They have the number for his burner right? They have it, don’t they? Why haven’t they called?

 _They’re gone_ , the nasty voice said. _Might as well drop some Oxy and slit your wrists in the bathtub because they’re not coming back._

Juice shook his head. No. They were out there. They were coming for him.

 

* * *

 

A month. A whole goddamn month. Thirty fucking days.

He found a sharpie in one of the bedside drawers. He started writing and he couldn’t stop. Some part of him hoped the ink would absorb into his veins and stop his heard mid-breath.

But, Juice loved the way their names looked on him, covering every spare inch of his skin. Chibs. Tig. Filip. Alexander. Daddy. Tiggy. Every variation that ran through his brain.

He wore their names in blue Sharpie on his face like warpaint. And when the ink dripped down in bright, cerulean veins down his skin after he took a shower, he just wrote them again. Over and over and over.

Chibs. Tig. Filip. Alexander. Daddy. Tiggy.

Daddy. Tiggy.

 

* * *

 

Two months and he was going insane. The Minnesota weather sucked and all he did was lay in bed all day. Every Friday, he’d trek out to the CVS to stock up on his candy and Sprite and wonder how long he could live on this shit before his body gave out.

People always gave him looks. He couldn’t blame them. The blue on his face made him look like a monster. Or at least a deranged psycho sure to become an urban legend these CVS workers would tell their families at the dinner table long after he was gone.

Juice popped a Sour Patch Kid into his mouth and chewed as slowly as he could, pretending like he was on the beach. Sand between his toes, cold water splashing at his hips while he ventured deeper and deeper into the ocean. Before he left Queens, he had a collection of rocks he took from the beach. He always brought at least one home, much to the annoyance of his mother.

“Juan Carlos, those rocks are filthy!” she would huff and he’d pretend to throw them out into the street.

He wondered if she ever found them after he left. Did she know what they were? Did she keep them?


End file.
